CHAPTER XXI.

IN WHICH BOBBY STEPS OFF THE STAGE, AND THE AUTHOR MUST FINISH “NOW OR NEVER.”

The few days which Bobby remained at home before entering upon the duties of his new situation were agreeably filled up in calling upon his many friends, and in visiting those pleasant spots in the woods and by the river, which years of association had rendered dear to him.  His plans for the future too, occupied some of his time, though, inasmuch as his path of duty was already marked out, these plans were but little more than a series of fond imaginings; in short, little more than day dreams.  I have before hinted that Bobby was addicted to castle building, and I should pity the man or boy who was not—­who had no bright dream of future achievements, of future usefulness.  “As a man thinketh, so is he,” the Psalmist tells us, and it was the pen of inspiration which wrote it.  What a man pictures as his ideal of that which is desirable in this world and the world to come, he will endeavor to attain.  Even if it be no higher aim than the possession of wealth or fame, it is good and worthy as far as it goes.  It fires his brain, it nerves his arm.  It stimulates him to action, and action is the soul of progress.  We must all work; and this world were cold and dull if it had no bright dreams to be realized.  What Napoleon dreamed, he labored to accomplish, and the monarchs of Europe trembled before him.  What Howard wished to be, he labored to be; his ideal was beautiful and true, and he raised a throne which will endure through eternity.

Bobby dreamed great things.  That bright picture of the little black house transformed into a white cottage, with green blinds, and surrounded by a pretty fence, was the nearest object; and before Mrs. Bright was aware that he was in earnest, the carpenters and the painters were upon the spot.

“Now or never,” replied Bobby to his mother’s remonstrance.  “This is your home, and it shall be the pleasantest spot upon earth, if I can make it so.”

Then he had to dream about his business in Boston and I am not sure but that he fancied himself a rich merchant, like Mr. Bayard, living in an elegant house in Chestnut Street, and having clerks and porters to do as he bade them.  A great many young men dream such things, and though they seem a little silly when spoken out loud, they are what wood and water are to the steam engine—­they are the mainspring of action.  Some are stupid enough to dream about these things, and spend their time in idleness, and dissipation, waiting for “the good time coming.”  It will never come to them.  They are more likely to die in the almshouse or the state prison, than to ride in their carriages; for constant exertion is the price of success.

Bobby enjoyed himself to the utmost of his capacity during these few days of respite from labor.  He spent a liberal share of his time at Squire Lee’s where he was almost as much at home as in his mother’s house.  Annie read Moore’s Poems to him, till he began to have quite a taste for poetry himself.